Night Sky (53 page)

He didn’t feel glad, he didn’t feel angry. If anything he felt a little annoyed. It was the constant chopping and changing that got him down …

The next day a nurse came in, a nurse he hadn’t seen before. As she made a show of tucking in the bed clothes she started whispering to him. At first David didn’t understand what she was saying. Then, suddenly, he realised. The nurse was saying, ‘I have a message for you. Your friends will deliver both packages. They repeat:
Both
packages.’

He clasped his hands together and let the understanding slowly dawn on him. His prayers had been answered. He was to be allowed his small act of sabotage after all.

T
HE BOOKSHOP WINDOWS
looked blank and cold. Julie lowered her eyes and kept walking until she reached the shop door. She went straight in. A bell jangled loudly.

The proprietor was sitting behind the counter. He peered at her over his spectacles.

Julie said, ‘I’d like a copy of
La Grande Chance
, please.’

‘Is that by Maurik?’

‘No, Lefarge.’

The shopkeeper looked quickly around. ‘Follow me, I’ll see if I have it in the back.’ He led the way through some heavy curtains into the darkness of the store room behind. For a moment Julie couldn’t see anything, then she realised there was a figure standing before her. A voice said, ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘That’s all right.’

The figure came closer and Julie made out the features. It was the new man, Maurice. He had come from England with a wireless operator called Jacques.

Maurice led her towards the back of the storeroom. There was more light here. Maurice said, ‘The same as before, if you don’t mind. There are two of them.’ His voice was quiet, calm and authoritative. It was like his face: trustworthy. The moment he’d started reorganising the line Julie had known he’d be all right. He’d discarded many of the helpers and reduced their numbers to a small tight group. Most important, he was very very careful.

He indicated a door which led to a small box room. ‘The first’s waiting in here.’ He smiled. ‘All right?’

‘Oh yes!’ It was easy now, not like the first time.

Julie walked in, sat down and faced the young man who sat at the small table. He certainly looked American, with his round face and his extraordinary haircut.

She smiled briefly. ‘Where do you come from?’

‘I’m from Milwaukee, ma’am.’

Julie regarded the airman as if she knew precisely where Milwaukee was. ‘And which State is that in?’

‘Wisconsin, ma’am.’

Julie tried to remember where Wisconsin was. Somewhere on the Great Lakes, she thought. Mid-West, anyway. She said, ‘That’s near New York, isn’t it?’

The airman laughed drily. ‘Goodness me, no, ma’am! Don’t let nobody from Wisconsin hear you say that! Chicago – that’s the nearest big city. New York! Why that’s a thousand miles away.’ He laughed again.

This one was genuine, no doubt about that. But best to make sure. ‘You should be back in four weeks or so. Are you looking forward to that?’

The young man grinned. ‘You bet. Haven’t seen my family for over a year now.’

‘Yes, let me see, it’s late November now. You should be back in time for Thanksgiving then, shouldn’t you?’

The airman frowned. ‘Why, no, ma’am. We’ve just had Thanksgiving. Just four days ago!’ He shook his head. ‘No, no way I’ll get Thanksgiving with my family till next year, ma’am.’

Julie smiled. ‘No, of course not.’ She stood up. ‘You wait here. They’ll come and collect you in a moment.’

The airman nodded and sank back in his seat. Julie went back into the storeroom. Maurice came forward. She nodded and said, ‘That one’s all right, I’m certain.’

Maurice looked pleased. ‘Good.’ He said over his shoulder, ‘Get that one back into the cellar, Henri, and bring up the other one. Don’t let them talk to each other.’

Julie leant against a bookshelf to wait. This was the third time they’d asked her to come to the bookshop. The first time had been difficult: she hadn’t known what to ask and she’d found herself going through two generations of the Americans’ family histories before she struck on the idea of asking questions about Thanksgiving. Now she could do an interview in as little as five minutes.

Stool-pigeons.
Mouchards
. She was pretty sure she hadn’t let any through yet.
God forbid
.

She watched Maurice as he leant back against a bookshelf and lit a cigarette. He was about forty, stocky, and she was pretty sure he was a Belgian – but one didn’t ask. After the fiasco of the previous winter no-one asked anything any more.

He ran the line with a firm hand. No unnecessary contact, no unnecessary knowledge. That’s why everyone trusted him.

Maurice came up to her. ‘The other one’s in there now. He’s the one we’re concerned about. He turned up near Rennes, saying he’d walked all the way from the north somewhere. That’s a hell of a long walk without any help … Also he looks very nervous. We checked him out with London, of course. Everything all right there, but …!’ He shrugged.

Julie nodded and went back into the box room.

The airman jumped when she came into the room: he was nervous all right. Julie took a good look at him. He was blond, blue-eyed and pale-skinned. He looked miserable. Julie began with the usual questions: name, rank, serial number, aircraft, squadron, where stationed. These facts had already been checked, but she asked the questions again so that she could watch him and listen to his voice.

There was a strange inflection in his voice: not quite an accent, more a hint of one.

She asked, ‘Where are you from?’

‘Omaha.’

‘Have your family always lived there?’

‘No.’

He was not very forthcoming. Julie tried again. ‘Where did they come from originally?’

‘Europe.’

‘Where exactly?’

There was a silence. The boy narrowed his lips. Julie thought: Oh dear, this one’s going to be difficult. On a hunch she asked, ‘Was it from Germany?’

The young man was looking upset. ‘Back to that again! You’re going to be like the rest.’

‘What do you mean?’ Julie asked softly.

‘They—’ He was unable to speak and shook his head. Finally he said, ‘They – hate me! They call me a Hun! And now I suppose you’re going to accuse me of being a German spy!’

‘Your family
were
German?’

He nodded slowly. ‘But I’m an American! I’m as American as any of them! I suppose they’ve been telling you different?’

‘No. No, they haven’t. Really. But your name – Smith?’

‘My family’s name was Schmidt. They went to America a long, long time ago! We changed our name – oh, fifteen years ago.’

‘That must have been about the time you went to school.’ He didn’t look much more than twenty.

He nodded.

‘Where did you go to school?’

She took him through everything she could think of. School, summer camps, baseball, football, the movies he had seen, the girls he had known – not many, she guessed correctly – even the house his family lived in. She had no idea if his answers were right. She only knew that his eyes were honest and he never stopped to search for an answer and, when he spoke of home, his face lit up.

She asked him about his journey from Northern France. He had walked, he said, because he felt safer that way. He thought the local people might not be friendly so he’d avoided them and stolen food as he went along. He described the places he’d been to, how he’d narrowly escaped a patrol and had to hide in a tree. It all sounded plausible, Julie decided. She couldn’t imagine anyone making up such a long and involved story.

Finally she said, ‘Well, if everything goes smoothly you should be home soon – in about a month. That’ll get you home at the end of December, won’t it?’

He smiled and it transformed his face. ‘Yes! Will it really be that soon?’

That makes a change, Julie thought. Most of them complained because they weren’t being airlifted back in the morning. She said, ‘If all goes well.’ Then she smiled. ‘But you might just miss Thanksgiving, I’m afraid.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t care – just so long as I can see my folks.’

Julie thought: Blast, he hasn’t risen to it. I’ll have to keep going.

Suddenly the young man said, ‘Hey! But we’ve just had Thanksgiving!’

‘Of course!’ Julie laughed. ‘How silly of me.’

When she came out Maurice and the others were standing among the dusty book shelves, waiting for her expectantly. She said, ‘I think he’s genuine. But I can’t guarantee it.’ She hated giving them a woolly answer, but there was one awful possibility she could not rule out: his background might be everything he said it was, but he might have chosen to move back to Germany just before the war. He might be a superb liar. She said, ‘He certainly lived in America as a child but whether or not he chose to stay there I cannot say. His family were German.’

Maurice touched her shoulder. ‘Good enough. He stays with the others, then. But we keep an eye on him.’ He turned to Julie. ‘Thank you for your help. It’s just what we need.’

Julie flushed with pleasure. ‘I’m just sorry I couldn’t be more certain—’

‘No, no! Better to have doubts than pretend to be sure. Thank you again. We’ve kept you long enough. You should go now. Take care.’

Julie put her hand on his arm. ‘One thing – you will call on me, won’t you, for beach duty, when the boat comes?’

Maurice looked at her thoughtfully. ‘If you wish. It would certainly be useful to have you there. But – it means more risk, you know that?’

‘Yes, I know that.’

He nodded.

Julie waved briefly, then went to the thick curtain and waited behind it, listening. There was no sound and, tentatively, she pulled the curtain aside until she could see through into the shop. There were no customers: only the proprietor, standing behind the counter.

She stepped out briskly and went round the end of the counter. Near the shop door she paused, as if looking at one of the books on the shelf, then nodding to the proprietor, went casually out into the street.

She resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder. That would never do. Instead she looked at her watch. Her lunch hour was nearly over. She’d have to go straight back to the office. It wasn’t far, only five minutes away.

She walked calmly, not too fast, not too slow. She kept her manner casual, glancing at the occasional shop window, or into the faces of passers-by. She had never realised it was so difficult to look natural. She wondered if she was fooling anyone. Her heart was beating wildly and she felt horribly conspicuous. She decided she’d never get used to this kind of thing.

When she arrived at the office it was quiet: her boss was away for the afternoon. She finished some accounts and typed three letters, then looked at the pile of copy invoices waiting to be filed. She hated filing: it could wait.

Instead she flicked through her diary, trying to work out when the next moonless night would be … That was when he would come …

It was seven months since she had seen him. She’d thought about him constantly, so much so that sometimes she couldn’t remember what his voice sounded like or the exact shape of his nose. Not that those things mattered … But it did make him seem unreal and that frightened her. Sometimes she could even persuade herself that she’d never see him again.

He, his crew, and the stranded airmen had finally been collected in March. The boat had come back four times after that, on routine missions. It was then that she’d expected to see him. But he hadn’t been on board. Instead there had been messages, usually relayed by the leader of the beach party.

Hoping to come soon. Please be careful
.

Take care. Don’t know when I’ll be able to come
.

In April the nights had got too short and the boats had not come any more. The summer seemed to last for ever – and not just for her but for the people hiding the growing number of airmen. Now it was autumn again and he still hadn’t come. There were messages like the ones before, but no Richard.

Maybe he would never come again. But she’d go to the beach anyway, just in case.

That was why she was helping Maurice – to make sure she got to the beach. She was ashamed of her motives. Either one was committed or one wasn’t. She had to make up her mind.

Immediately, she knew it was impossible. She couldn’t choose between the safety of her son and seeing Richard again. She was greedy; she wanted
both
.

After. She’d make up her mind after she’d seen Richard. Yes: that was the answer.

She shivered slightly and got up to do the filing.

She left the office early. There was no more work to do and, by getting the five o’clock bus, she could have an extra hour with Peter before bedtime.

It was only a five-minute walk to the bus stop, but she’d still have to hurry. She walked rapidly, head down and arms swinging. She looked at her watch again. There should be enough time … But she hated cutting things fine. She ran a little way until she was out of breath, then walked again. She arrived at the bus stop with four minutes to spare.

She flopped into a seat, breathless and rather hot. Why had she hurried? Because I’m a worrier, she thought with a sigh, and I’ll never change now. She took the morning edition of
Ouest-France
out of her bag and, unfolding it, started to read. There wasn’t very much of it – only two pages – and it was, she guessed, heavily censored, but some news was better than none at all and, like everyone else, she read what she could.